


The Weight that's Carried

by Larkawolfgirl



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon Era, Emotional Sex, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mention of Canonical Character Death, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larkawolfgirl/pseuds/Larkawolfgirl
Summary: Gladio may seem like a hard-ass sometimes, but deep down he only wants the best for Noct. He wants to make all his pain go away. He wants to hold him gently and tell him everything is alright. But, nothing is alright and it is his duty to ensure Noct fulfills his own. There is no time for kid gloves or mourning.Noct may seem uncaring, but he feels the weight of everything acutely, like a knife slowly digging into him deeper and deeper with each tragedy. He's at the breaking point. All he wants is to be wrecked, broken, so thoroughly overwhelmed that his mind can go blank for even one second. So that he may find one moment of relief.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Chinese translation by makubesakuya can be found here http://makubesakuya.lofter.com/post/f5bf4_10394fd4

Sometimes Gladio downright hates his job as the royal shield. Don’t get him wrong, he will never regret putting his life on the line for Noctis. He cares about Noctis more than he should—more than his own life—which  only makes his job harder rather than easier. For instead of simply protecting him from physical harm, he longs to protect him from all means of attack, including the invisible mental and emotional ones. And honestly, he realizes his scrutiny harms Noctis the most. Yet, these are the attacks he is obligated to inflict.

Gladio knows how burdened Noctis already feels, how he hates his fate and the pain it has already carried with it. He knows that Noctis is trying, but also knows it is his sworn duty to push him to try _harder_. That millions of lives rest on Noctis’ shoulders whether he likes it or not, and the death of one or two lives, no matter how much those lives mean to him personally, matter little in the scheme of things. He understands this—having silently buried his own grief over the loss of his father for another time—and forces a glare onto his face when he finds Noctis finally breaking down in his private train compartment.

Noctis’ frame shudders, tears bursting from his eyes at an uncalculated rate. Surely, he would never be this open in public, but even Gladio’s sudden appearance does not impede this catharsis. Grief and blame and helplessness spur him on, no doubt releasing years of pent up emotion rather than these last perpetual weeks.

Honestly, it is painful enough to watch, and Gladiolus’ façade nearly crumbles when his fingers tingle with the desire to brush through the prince’s unkempt hair. Instead, he curls his fingers into a fist, punching onto the plush seat cushion. “Get a damn hold of yourself.”

Noctis peeks at him briefly, only giving a half-glare through his continuing tears. He says nothing but resentment is written clear on his face.

“We don’t have time for this.” The words are acidic in Gladiolus’ mouth and his fist tightens further.

Sniffling loudly, the prince wipes at his face before subjecting him to the nastiest look he’s ever seen from him before. It is almost ugly—if the prince can look ugly to Gladio’s eyes. “Shut up.” It is a mere whisper but holds enough malice to cut.

“So Luna died. We have bigger things to worry about now. We need to find the crystal and stop Ardyn. We need to discuss our plans while we still have time to.”

Noctis is no longer crying, all that emotion churned into unconcealed hostility. “You have no idea what I’m feeling.”

“Don’t I?” Gladio spats back. “My father died, too, or did you forget? I also admired Lunafreya for the wonderful person she was. It’s sad and life is a bitch, but mourn later.”

“Just shut up! You think I don’t understand what the world expects from me—what the world _needs_ from me—but you’re wrong. I don’t know what to do—what I can do. If I had been that much faster, that much stronger, I could have saved Luna. If I hadn’t brought Ignis along or had come up with a better plan, he would still have his eyesight. I haven’t been able to do a single thing up to this point. Everything has been for nothing!”

Gladio punches him right in the gut making him buckle. “I don’t want to hear it. You have the ring of Lucii. You have the amiger and pacts with three of the six Astrals. You have Lucian blood running through your veins, and if you would sit down with us, we would also have a plan of action. _We will succeed if it is over our corpses_.” His words come out bitter and chopped. There is no room for argument, and Noctis’ eyes show his acknowledgment.

“I can’t,” he says, voice gone soft and miserable. “I can’t think about it right now. It’s too much. My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

Compassion lights in Gladio’s chest, and that itch grows stronger, this time to pull him to him. He wants to shield him with his comforting arms so that nothing else can harm him ever again. “Fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, as much to push the thought aside as to show his exasperation, “take a bit to meditate then.”

“No,” Noct says too quickly. “I can’t clear my head. I’ve tried.” As soon as the words are from his mouth his hands are gripping to Gladio’s muscle shirt. His face is impossibly close, eyes practically begging. “Make me forget. Make it so that I _can’t_ think.”

A rush of blood goes straight to Gladiolus’ groin. Long-suppressed desires rise to the surface. To hold the prince would be a dream come true; but not like this. Not in this way, not as an escape. “No.”

“Gladio,” he whines his name, pushing his hips into his making Gladio gasp despite himself.

Gladio catches his hands, pushing the prince back against the compartment’s window-side wall. Noct’s face twists into an indecent lustful thing at his new trapped position. He wiggles in his limited space, again connecting their groins. Gladio pushes his wrists into the wall with harsh pressure. “I said no.”

The glare is back to Noctis’ face and he begins to struggle against him, trying in vain to take charge. However, they both know Gladio cannot be overpowered, and it doesn’t take long for Noctis to switch tactics. He swipes his tongue from his bodyguard’s jaw to his ear, where he pauses to murmur, “Fuck me till I can’t think straight.”

Something snaps in Gladio. It is anger and lust and desperation all mixed up in one. It is a conflicted jumble of emotion that spurs him into crushing their mouths together and pinning Noct so hard against the wall that he cannot-so-much as shift against him. Anger at their circumstance, that this ugly collision is all that his fealty, devotion, and love has earned him. That this will ultimately paint their relationship with permanent marker. Desperation to feel Noctis, to possess him, to give him what it is he wants, order or not. Red hot lust driving his hands to roam and his throat to constrict with near feral noises.

Noctis croons, filling his mouth, and Gladio snarls, snipping at his tongue. Noct’s head tries to lull back but there is no room to do so. Gladio keeps his wrists squared in place with one hand while the other roams the prince’s torso. Even through his clothes, it is almost more than Gladio can take. His lean muscles stand out through the fabric, a reminder of the time Gladio has spent shaping him. A possessive seed blooms inside him, and his hand sneaks beneath the fabric to feel the muscles directly. He kneads into them, fingers taking time to examine each one in turn. Finally, he traces over the nodes of his nipples, and Noct rewards him with a serious bite to his lip. He licks a smear of blood off his lip as he flicks over the nodes.

“Gladio,” the prince pants in impatience. Straining hard enough to break his wrists free from Gladio’s grasp, he tugs his mouth back down to his. He’s nothing but wild movements, rocking as best he can against his frame, lips and teeth and nails all working in tandem, and if he didn’t know better, Gladio would think his goal is to cum as soon as possible. Rather, he is riding on pure animalistic instinct, forgoing all thought for carnal pleasure. His eyes are darker than Gladio’s ever seen them before, shining with domineering intensity as he manages to knock Gladio down upon the bench. Sitting on his thighs, he pins him there. Hips gyrating wantonly, he bites at his throat.

Gladiolus’ head is quickly loosing capacity, and his hands grasp at his ass, taking back control of his movements. Three humps later, he propels all his body weight forward. The prince falls onto his back, arms resting loosely, legs spread in welcome. Gladio gives no pause before obliging, pressing in so close that he swears he can feel his opening through his clothing. He gives a growl as he shifts back some. As small as the distance is—just enough room to remove the offending material blocking his way—he already aches at losing the contact. He nearly snags the zipper in his hurry, but it is worth it when the prince releases a throaty whine before squeezing his eyes shut.

“Can’t…wait…longer.”

The disconnected words remind Gladio of his own taunt pants. He’s suddenly thankful he donned slip-on sweats for a round of light exercises earlier when he can tug them down with relative ease. Immediately, he repositions himself, and Noct’s legs wrap around his lower back.

Against his better judgment, Gladio has imagined this moment many an occasion. He’s made love to the prince on a bed of rose petals in a high-class suite (the befitting romantic scene that Noctis deserves), gone down on him in the back of the regalia while Ignis and Prompto scouted the area, even fucked him like a bitch against rough tree bark (which he now wonders is more to Noct's preference). Never like this, though. Even in his dirtiest, most wild fantasies, there is always visible affection buried beneath the lust in Noct’s eyes, tenderness in his touch, the lightest of fond smiles on his face for a millisecond at least. There is always consent. Always tenderness. But now there is only lascivious longing, nothing between them beyond a joining of flesh. A part of his heart is dying, but the rest of him is too far gone to stop as he pushes into Noct without preamble, watching as his back arches in gratification.

“Fuck.”

Gladio knows he should wait, but Nocts’ legs are pulling him closer, every muscle ordering him to move, so he thrusts—hard—scooting him back against the outer wall of the compartment. The prince gives a low moan, nails biting into his biceps. When he thrusts again, Noct scrapes down his still clothed back before pulling him down flush against him.

“Fuck, fuck.” He repeats it with each thrust till there is saliva trailing down his mouth and his face is red and drenched in sweat.

Gladio hefts Noct’s legs in toward himself for better leverage, and Noct cries out so loud he’s surprised no one comes to complain. He kisses him again, dominating the kiss easily now as Noct is running out of vitality.

“Uh.” Even words seem beyond him at this point.

Gladio feels him begin to quiver beneath him and knows Noct’ll be gone soon, but he’s not ready for this to end. Not ready for the repercussions. So, he squeezes at his cock, cutting off his impending orgasm and earning him a glare even nastier than earlier. Instead of begging or demanding as he expects, Noct bites down onto his shoulder hard enough to leave an ugly bruise. As much as it hurts, he takes it in stride, shoving his own thoughts into a corner to focus only on the heat pooling in his stomach and the fleshy walls sucking him in. With his free hand, he cradles the back of Noct’s head. Thrusting in even harder, he wills himself to cum, and finally he feels the coils tightening.

The hand on Noct’s dick slackens enough to pump at his shaft. Noct throws his head back with a cry.

“Cum, princess,” he growls.

Not a second later, a spluttering wail leaves his throat and Gladio buries himself to the hilt as his walls quake around him. His own orgasm comes in a low prolonged sigh.

Immediately after, the prince goes boneless, eyes closed, face more relaxed than he’s seen it in years. Gladio’s mind is slowly righting itself, and he runs a hand tenderly over Noct’s forehead, cheek, arm, till it finds his hand and entwines their fingers slowly. The air is somehow simultaneously light and heavy, and Gladio half-hopes Noct will fall asleep so that he won’t have to deal with the dreaded relapse. But of course, fate is never so merciful.

Noct’s eyes snap open, first examining Gladio’s state before shifting to their joined fingers. He sits back against the wall, extracting his hand to clasp it with his other in his lap. “You’re right. That was…unproductive. My mind’s as muddled as before.”

Gladio is unsure what to do or say at this point. The prince is neither angry nor depressed, instead what can only be contemplative numbness. An invisible wall stands between them.

“I think I’ll take a quick nap. Then I’ll go talk with you all. Swear.” The forced smile is painful.

This was his original intention, yet Gladio can’t bring himself to agree. For Noct, a quick nap could be a few hours or into late morning. By then this distance between them might be impassable. To Noctis’ evident surprise, he shakes his head, hands finding his shoulders. “About what happened.”

Noct covers one of his hands with his own. “Don’t worry. I know there was no meaning to it.”

“No.” He gulps around the lump in his throat. “It wasn’t. Not for me.”

Noct’s eyes flick up to meet his. “What are you saying?”

“I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long. I’ve wanted _you_ for so long.”

Noctis gives a bitter laugh. “What is this, a love confession?” Gladio bites his tongue, silence his only response. Noctis slumps back. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. As if my mind’s not fucked up enough already.”

“I just wanted you to know. Before…” _You pretend this never happened._

“Well, thanks, I guess,” but he does not sound thankful in the least which cuts a deeper wound than the one across Gladio’s chest.

“Always,” he whispers, head bowed.

The prince is silent, so he resigns himself to rise and leave him to sleep. However, he turns back to him once more before closing the compartment door. “Pleasant dreams, Highness.”

A sliver of a real smile flits over his face at this just before the door slams shut.


End file.
